


To Be Measured

by mazzyg



Category: British Royalty RPF, Hetalia: Axis Powers, Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 20:14:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7478355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mazzyg/pseuds/mazzyg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In May 2010, David Cameron becomes Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. He didn't expect to be accosted by a stranger with weird ideas shortly after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be Measured

**Author's Note:**

> Ages ago around Cameron's first round as Prime Minister, I wrote this thinking about the logistics and connection between heads of state and personifications of that state. Never got around to sharing it. The real people referenced here are simply my own fancy, and do not reflect their real personalities or lives.

Cameron looked ahead to see a spindly young man in a grey tweed, heavy brows furrowed with some distant irritation as if a fly had buzzed into his ear, elbow his way past a double-feature of security that seemed well used to such ill treatment. Cameron did not recognize him except for something vague about those demanding green eyes. Irish? Had he been in North Ireland lately?

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” the spindly man demanded, sharply RP just like a BBC announcer, and as demanding as the tweed and twinset that made up the Conservatives. He marched up to Cameron, eyeing him the same way a father did the Beau asking to take out his daughter. Cameron fought the odd urge to shuffle his feet.

“Get what over with?” Cameron asked, looking to his own security detail. Kimberly, the nice young man with two daughters, wouldn’t look him in the eye. No one seemed all that alarmed. “What’s this all about?”

“Don’t they even--God help us.” Mr. Grey Tweed shoved at hand at Cameron, frowning hard enough to set his coat on fire. “I am the United Kingdom of Britain and Ireland, but you may call me Arthur Kirkland.”

Cameron stared at the loon who, for some reason, seemed to have his own security detail, wondering if this was just some odd joke from the Labour Party or perhaps his campaign manager. “Ha ha, very funny, that’s all right and good but I have a meeting at four--”

Arthur’s expression darkened, face reddening with the threat of using every inch of lung he possessed to throw a fit when a lady’s amused voice swept in from the hall.

“He really is.” 

Cameron turned with a start to see Her Royal Highness Anne coming up the corridor from the direction the loon--Arthur--had arrived by. She held her gloves in one hand, still in her long dark red coat, as if she’d just arrived at the Parliamentary building. She smiled at him, the soft wisps of her tall hair adding a softness to the expression. 

“Your Royal Highness--,” Cameron started, feeling as if the day had been yanked out from under him.

“Your Royal Highness,” said Arthur at the same moment, but the sheer force of his irritable determination overroad Cameron’s words almost immediately as he turned abruptly to face her. “Thank you. I apologize for the need, but honestly this song and dance every time--”

“No need, Arthur,” Her Royal Highness replied, tucking her gloves into her pocket. He seemed mildly mollified, if still cross. She caught Cameron’s eye, inclining her head to Arthur. “It may not make much sense to you now, but he is one of the most important pieces of policy you may ever encounter, Mr Cameron. If you recall, he was at her Majesty’s side when you were appointed.”

Memory rushed back to him. Arthur had been there, behind the rank and file in the soft green room where Her Majesty had received him with the pleasant demeanor that was so legendary. Arthur had remained in the background so thoroughly he’d dismissed him as some minor attendant, or perhaps cleverly disguised wait staff, in the black suit he’d been wearing like a man at a funeral. Arthur had watched it all like an outside observer, his demeanor withdrawn, and his lips pressed together.

“Oh, yes,” Cameron echoed, feeling oddly like his head had been shook around as he focused again on the same young man now in grey. “I hadn’t known what to make of him.”

“I am right here,” Arthur snapped. 

“And he’s always in the Parliament, didn’t you notice?” Her Royal Highness added, with quiet humour as if at part of a lead in to a joke.

He had been. Cameron stared at the young man with a growing sense of something black opening at his feet, slightly dizzy. Now he thought about it, those green eyes were incredibly familiar, as was the heavy set of his brows. Either sitting behind the news casters, off to the side with the other observers, or occasionally weaving his way through the flocking of the Commons and house of Lords, always with the most serious of expressions. 

The more Cameron thought, the more the young man became less a stranger and more of a familiar, if distant, acquaintance. 

Attending to visitors of state, walking the back halls during Bill developments, folded into the ceremonial retinue of the Queen....

Arthur Kirkland was always there. Why had he never noticed before? He stared at Arthur with a growing slackness of expression, confusion dragging his brows together. 

For his part, Arthur slipped his hands into his pockets and kept Cameron under a steady stare, a brow lifted while Cameron’s thoughts raced. He looked insufferable, chin lifted and shoulders set in a manner Cameron abruptly recognize from watching Military Drills. 

This had gone beyond a joke. 

“What are you talking about? Who are you?” Cameron asked, bewildered.

“I told you,” Arthur replied archly. Her Royal Highness remained stepped aside, watching with her hands folded. “I am the United Kingdom of Britain and Ireland, what you have been given to Minister by the graces of Her Majesty. You just don’t pay any attention.” 

Cameron rallied, looking to the guards men, but they seemed as taken in as Her Royal Highness. They wouldn’t meet his eye, but none seemed to believe that this man was insane, or joking. Her Royal Highness smiled, a small tucking in at the edges of her mouth.

“Shake his hand, Mr Cameron. This may be the most important day of your life.”

No other choice but to follow along, Cameron stepped forward on the plush carpet and stiffly offered the other man his hand. 

“About time,” Arthur said, irritably, and gripped his hand

Cameron’s breath rushed out of him.

It was the palm of every British citizen Cameron had ever shook. It was the touch of thousands of acres against the bottoms of his feet. Young? This man was no younger than this building, the weight of centuries of living rendering that green stare so steady it could not be escaped. Truth, pure, rushed through him with the understanding of what exactly stood in front of him, and for a moment Cameron saw himself in the steady gaze in front of him reflected a thousand times into the splintered visages of every man, woman, and child in Britain and her Dominions going back a thousand years. 

Arthur opened his hand, and he became merely ordinary flesh again. He stepped back, waiting, and Cameron felt the pressure of being measured. He gathered his wits, taking a breath to steady himself from the strange feeling he’d just passed through a Fairy Mound and been spat back out into normal life undeniably touched, with stories no one would believe and the taste of Fairy honey in his mouth.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Cameron said, automatic in his bewilderment. 

“There’s a good man,” Arthur replied, turning half toward the other end of the hallway. He glanced at Cameron over his shoulder, brow lifted. “We’ve some work to do, don’t we?”

“Yes,” Cameron agreed, shakily smoothing down his jacket and feeling about five years old as he stepped forward to join him. “Yes, we do.”


End file.
